


Flash in the Pan

by epkitty



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-02
Updated: 2011-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas and Elrond after the Council.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flash in the Pan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lotrfan_angel17](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lotrfan_angel17).



The old air of Imladris was heavy with something Elrond had not scented in an age. Fear, evil, and desperation. The scent of war.

Mithrandir had departed with heavy steps, as though the wizard couldn’t be silence itself, and Elrond allowed himself to lean heavily on the railing. It was sad to realize that after such a long life, he was finally starting to feel old. One would think the death of a twin, the fall of an empire, the loss of a wife, would engender a feeling of old age.

No. Twas not bereavement nor destruction nor failure that antiquated a person. It was love.

He swore as violently as he felt was appropriate under the circumstances.

What did it matter that the Ring was within his realm, that war was imminent, that the death toll would rise once more in the vain hopes of overcoming evil?

Legolas was in his sights.

Elrond’s gray eyes swept along the circuitous trails laid out before him like an arrow pointing out the path of his indulgence. Down below in a nearby courtyard, Legolas roamed among the weathered statues and neatly lined gardens, quiet and serene as he had not been in his youth.

Elrond had looked upon those times fondly. He still did.

Not long before the birth of his daughter, Legolas had arrived, half-young and more than half frightened, so fresh and tremulous beside the guards that accompanied him.

Legolas, Elladan, and Elrohir had been the terror of the town, cavorting about the halls and grounds with mischievous delight, eagerly following Glorfindel and Asfaloth each on their own magnificent steed, much to the Slayer’s amusement. The twins had escorted their new friend to the Hall of Fire and the library and all their favorite wonders of the Valley. Legolas had then been little more than a youth.

But adolescence was now a thing of the past, and there was not even a ghost of childhood or innocence remaining in face or form of the Prince who was no longer young. He was an Elf of royalty who had dwelt overlong in the shadows of his home, and -- in Elrond’s opinion -- the shadow of his father. But the years of battle and hardness had only sharpened the beauty of the Mirkwood Elf, whose pale skin glimmered even in sunlight.

Greenleaf. Those eyes were so much more, turning mossy or stormy at turns, until Elrond was sure the Elf was nothing less than an angel. At times.

That head of haloed silver-gold then turned, and green eyes sharp as stone turned up to find Elrond heavy and sad against the old stone railing.

Elrond looked away, afraid to meet those eyes, even across the distance, and he turned into his inner sanctum, away from the light.

= = = = =

Legolas regarded the Half-Elf across the length of the table. So old. So silent. Legolas could not explain the little lift in his heart whenever someone managed to elicit a rare smile or rarer laugh from the too-solemn Lord.

There had been happier times, Legolas knew, but even they seemed to weigh Elrond down, adding to the already profound load of loss and sorrow.

‘No solace for the ancient,’ he’d once heard Erestor mutter. That had been a long time ago, but he still remembered it, and now it made sense.

There had been a time, Legolas vaguely recalled, when Elrond’s eyes had not been overshadowed by that weary remembrance. Legolas was saddened that he himself could recognize it for what it was. He was no longer young; it was true, and such life-fatigue was not so far off for a royal warrior of any age.

The Prince watched as Elrond chuckled over some petty witticisms passed between Erestor and Glorfindel.

Legolas found himself smiling.

= = = = =

“Legolas, what a surprise.” Elrond stepped back, welcoming his late night visitor with a gesture. “Is there a problem?”

“Not at all,” Legolas reassured him. “I hope you don’t mind; I just wanted to talk with you.”

“A welcome distraction. Make yourself comfortable.” Elrond led the way to the fireplace, now housing only embers, and sat himself in one of the old oak chairs.

Legolas followed, situating himself not opposite the Lord, but to his side, on the lounger upholstered in something that might once have been blue velvet. “I intend to go with them.”

“They could hope for none better,” Elrond said.

Too old to blush at such compliments, Legolas merely nodded. “I wonder what will happen.”

“You and the rest of the world. If they only knew that their future hinged upon such a thing as a hobbit.” The smile was small, but it was there. “You know that there will be a dwarf in the party?”

A corner of Legolas’s mouth lifted in ironic acknowledgement. “I’ll manage.”

Elrond nodded and turned his attention to the fire.

Legolas took the opportunity to examine Elrond’s profile, lines and planes, not as smooth as other Elves, not as pretty. There was something more solid and masculine to Elrond’s form than most Elves. Legolas wondered what other differences might be hiding. “You were watching me.”

“Hm?” Elrond’s gray eyes turned to him, dark brows furrowed.

“You were watching me. Today in the garden. And later in the Hall of Fire. And yesterday at breakfast, and the day before that, out in the training yard.”

Elrond looked back to what remained of the fire. “Yes. I was watching you. You’re so different from what I remember.”

“So are you.”

Elrond shook his head. “I can’t have changed so much.”

“But you have,” Legolas said. He reached out a steady hand to touch the lines etched along Elrond’s wide mouth.

Lips parted in surprise at the gesture and Elrond froze, eyes flickering from the embers to Legolas, who shifted his fingers along a cheek to the creases that pointed with somber fatigue to those worried gray eyes. “How have I changed?”

“We’ve both seen too much, fear too much for the future,” Legolas told him. His voice fell to a whisper. “You were watching me. And I was watching you.”

“I know.”

Legolas, in a shift so slow and silent that it might have been only a shade of movement, knelt before the Half-Elven Lord. The floor was hard beneath his knees. His pale hands alighted on Elrond’s gray-robed thighs.

Elrond bowed his head, sorrowful as a deer. His nose brushed the fine silver hair and he set a kiss at the temple there. “I take it,” he breathed across the brow, “watching leads to other things.”

“Mm.” Legolas sighed a warm breath across Elrond’s arching neck and leaned forward to nose along the strong jaw. Moist lips sought the pulsing throat and their hearts beat a quicker rhythm.

“This is not wise,” Elrond said, his voice dry as though parched.

“And yet here we are.” Legolas leaned up to kiss Elrond’s cheek.

Elrond smiled indulgently. “No more arguments,” he agreed, voice rumbling and sandpaper smooth. “A month, a week, only a night. It will have to be enough.” His words were breathed out across pale pink lips, the color of young lilies in the darkness.

Legolas pulled away. He stood, he turned, he carelessly walked across the room. His clothes fell from him like figs in the ripening days as he wended his way to the bed, a simple device for sleeping tucked away in the corner as though it had no business being there.

Elrond followed, not quite so eager to bare himself to one so much younger and fairer than he.

Unbinding the silver plait, Legolas’s strong arms were bathed in nothing but the essence of moonlight reflected from elsewhere in the room, a soft, ephemeral glow as he reached around his head to run fingers through hair.

Elrond lit a candle.

The flame flared and jumped until it settled itself on the wick.

The Prince’s skin was yellow-gold in the glow.

Elrond turned, letting the robes snake off his back like a shed skin, reluctant.

Legolas reached out to trace the strong back with firm fingers, warm and sure.

Elrond turned in toward him until the caress became an embrace.

They lay beside one another, eyes twinkling unintentionally in the candle’s cheery light.

Hands so gentle, like the careful paws of a searching mouse, touched and wondered. Those twinkling eyes spoke what words never can.

I love you.

I know. I love you.

The making of love is a wonderful magic.

= = = = =

The End


End file.
